


Walk in the Wilds

by LynMars79



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Dravania, Final Fantasy XIV: Heavensward, Gen, Nutkin, Survival, Vath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-07 08:17:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14667063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LynMars79/pseuds/LynMars79
Summary: My take on a certain Archon's time in the wilderness during the Heavensward story.





	1. Life

**Author's Note:**

> Includes some dialogue and scene descriptions for 2.55 "The Parting Glass" MSQ. Also my interpretation of the Lifestream, and what is going on with Thancred's silvered eye (interestingly the one turned toward Y'shtola at the end), and why he starts keeping it covered despite no other visible damage.

“’Tis done!”

Light filled the tunnel, Y’shtola the brilliant heart of a star. Out of breath, kneeling in the water and unsure if he was bleeding out or not from the arrow to his leg, Thancred half-turned toward her, ever in awe of her raw power.

If he was going to die, it may as well be while gazing upon such radiant beauty as his dear friend in that moment.

It wouldn’t be for naught, either; their pursuers were crying out as the tunnel began its collapse. He heard Y’shtola’s voice again, but could not make out the words. They sounded wistful.

“Farewell, Minfilia,” he said, his mind conjuring images of the girl she had been, and the woman she was now—safely away with the Warrior of Light, to preserve their gift and the dawn it would bring the realm. If this was what he had to do to make up for Warburton, for everything, so be it; as long as she was safe.

Y’shtola’s light seared his eyes as the world went white.

******  
They rushed through the river  
the wind  
the fire  
the earth shapeless  
formless but he knew her anywhere her brilliance  
her strength entwined with his own stained essence as they  
fell  
flew  
flared  
along the streams uncountable voices flicking around  
through them like flames  
like rain  
like the most intimate of embraces with everyone  
everywhere all at once no shame  
no worry  
just pure acceptance because all were the same  
even as they were different  
always yearning to return  
to remain  
in this most natural state—

\--She thrust him out of the rush and back into time and solid space and everything was too hot and too cold and he was  
flaring  
flying  
falling…  
******

Thancred was standing, shakily, stones and twigs under his bare feet, cold wind assaulting his naked skin, the sun not nearly as intense as her light had been.

“Shtola?” He winced at the echo; he had been much louder than he had meant to be, and gods only knew who—or what—was around. Birds jabbered in reply among the tall trees, and a nutkin leapt from a branch to the ground near his feet and chittered up at him, before dashing off into the underbrush again.

A nutkin? Those creatures were not in Thanalan. Nor were trees and brush like this.

The beginnings of an eyestrain headache were forming, as he became aware that things Did Not Look Right. Rather, everything looked _too_ right; too sharp, too solid, too real, with a transparent underlay of aether current pulsing along every line and fiber. He closed his right eye and the underlay became an overlay, overwhelming his vision and mind. He closed his left eye next, and his sight seemed more or less normal. 

Well, all right.

He took a step forward—

\--And was on the ground, his knee screaming in remembered pain. He wasn’t bleeding; the wound, so fresh and real in his memory, was closed, as if recently healed. He sat on the ground—not the most comfortable without his reinforced pants—and rubbed and stretched the offending joint, trying to convince it the injury was past.

How long had it been?

The thought was a strange one, and yet Thancred had an uneasy feeling that it was appropriate.

From the underbrush, the nutkin chittered indignantly, apparently taking umbrage with the man sitting amongst the nuts it was trying to collect.

“Let’s take stock, shall we?” Thancred addressed the little creature, having no one else to talk with. His voice sounded strange—his, of course, and yet it felt unreal, after the…

He couldn’t remember. There was the tunnel and Y’shtola’s light, and then something that his waking mind refused to clearly recall, but he felt certain would haunt his dreams forevermore. No matter. Later. There were more pressing concerns in the moment.

“I don’t know where I am. I don’t know how long it’s been; judging by the sun, no less than twelve hours, surely, unless she somehow transported me to the other side of the world. I don’t know where she is—that’s my friend, Y’shtola, by the way, lovely, brilliant lady—just that she must be why I’m here. A rather last minute change of plan…”

He thought for a moment, back to lessons as a youth in Sharlayan, his own research since then. “Teleport would have taken too long though—Oh, gods.” His stomach knotted, and he _knew_ what she had done in that last, desperate second.

“If anyone could make that succeed, ‘twas her,” he said quietly. “And she _did_ succeed, for at least one of us. Thaliak, keep her safe,” he breathed, rubbing his suddenly stinging eyes with the heel of his palm.

The nutkin, indifferent, continued its gathering.

“All right,” Thancred finally said with a heavy exhale. “I am alone, naked, no weapons, in a wilderness far enough north for these trees, this wildlife, and this ungodly cold wind. A little bit of healing should fix what damage remains in my knee, and I must decide who I want to utterly humiliate myself in front of by showing up at their aetheryte in my nameday suit.”

Where was it even safe to go? If the Crystal Braves had turned on them, Revenant’s Toll was out of the question. He dismissed Coerthas immediately; he was cold enough already, and did not want to entirely freeze—or worse, have his extremities become instantly frostbitten and fall off—upon arriving at Lord Haurchefant’s doorstep. Thancred could not imagine the Elder Seedseer agreeing with this insanity, though the thought of appearing before the child-like padjali—even if some were far older than himself—in this state made him wince. Never mind that Kan-E-Senna had been his attendant healer after Operation Archon and had probably seen everything anyway; she was the Elder Seedseer, for gods’ sake.

Limsa, then. Hells, on most days, no one would notice an underdressed—or undressed—man on the docks. Pirates were not exactly known for shyness. The Sisters would take him in, he knew; put stabbers back in his fambles and put their wattles to the ground and sniff out the truth in the darkmans. Yes, his old hometown was the best place to go, and while some may think to look for him there, they would not find him among the other shadows—or they would regret it if they did.

Thancred nodded, satisfied with his decision, and ran his hands over his uncooperative knee, to cast the most basic of Cures any Sharlayan Archon learned.

Nothing.

He was not surprised, somehow. The knowledge of the spell—the how and why, the formula and theory—were all still in his head, as basic as breathing. When he tried to call on the aether, however, there was nothing. As if it simply did not exist, despite the evidence of his altered vision.

He thought about the Teleport spell, went through the steps like a novice.

Still nothing.

Thancred took a few long, calming breaths, trying to stave off the panic threatening to rise. That would not help here and now. Time to do things the old-fashioned way, then.

He looked about for a suitable branch to use as a makeshift cane, but none seemed available. There were plenty of smaller branches and twigs for firewood, however, all within reach or he could move that way while humoring his knee. It would have to do, though he was none too happy about how exposed his position was (har, har; Yda would have laughed, anyway, though that only turned his memory to how he last saw her and Papalymo, beyond the gate they had dropped to cover the others’ escape…Did they live? Had they fled? Imprisoned? Later, later, worry later…).

Thancred was dreadfully out of practice at starting a fire without the aid of either magic or a kit. After a longer time than he would ever admit to later, he had a small fire going at the edge of the little hollow made by massive tree roots he could hunker down between, keeping the fire safely clear of the old wood.

One problem down. Next?

Thancred’s stomach rumbled. Right. He had no idea when he had actually eaten last.

He looked at the nutkin sitting on a nearby branch, cracking open its latest prize. A well-thrown stone would stun, if not outright kill, the small creature. The rodent chose that moment to look up, cheeks stuffed as it chewed, large, dark eyes innocent and unafraid. Thancred laughed.

“Bad form, when you’re such a charming conversationalist,” he conceded. The nutkin kept eating.

While it was rightly wary of the fire, it was not concerned about the man—that spoke much to the area, Thancred concluded. His stomach rumbled again, derailing further thoughts in that direction, until he found something to eat. If not the nutkin, foraging might have to do for now. There were plenty of nuts, and it seemed a few plants he recognized grew amidst the underbrush; ‘twould be better than nothing.

It took time; again, more than he liked, but his still-healing leg hampered him, as well as the need for caution given his defenselessness. Eventually, he was sated, at least, even if it was not the most glamorous repast—and still better than some things he had eaten over his lifetime.

As the evening sky turned crimson, he banked his little fire and patted the dirt and some foliage into a small nest of sorts, against the base of the tree. Tomorrow he would find a better place to rest, but right now, he was utterly exhausted.

Still, he kept himself awake long enough to look at the stars as they wheeled overhead. He frowned at their positions, but the aetheric currents underlying his vision seemed to confirm it; at least a moon had passed since that awful night in Ul’dah. Perhaps a handful of days more; it would be hard to say for sure until he saw a calendar, or asked someone for the date.

He was also rather further north—judging by the wildlife, the landscape he could see, the plants, and now the position of the Dragon Star, he was fairly certain he was somewhere near Abalathia’s Spine, perhaps in or near Dravania.

Had Y’shtola, in her desperate use of the forbidden spell, tried to send him… _home_? Even subconsciously, the spell may have reacted to her desire for safety. Never mind the City of Learning had been abandoned these fifteen years—and Thancred was nowhere near it, as this was not the land he remembered outside the borders of the city where he had gone from rough street urchin to a man of learning and refinement.

More to worry about on the morrow, he decided, as a yawn escaped. He curled up in his little nest, drawing makeshift blankets of vines and leaves over him to hold in body heat. It would not be the most comfortable night’s sleep, but he could get _some_ rest, and be ready for the morning’s challenges.


	2. Water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes of my take on a popular theory/pseudo-canon at the end.

His mouth felt drier than the Sagolii when he woke. At least his altered-vision-induced headache had abated with sleep, though it would come back soon enough. There was an odd heat and weight on his hip and thigh. He shifted to look, and received indignant chittering and claw pricks in his skin as the nutkin dashed off and scolded Thancred for daring to move when it had been so very comfortable.

“Cheeky little bugger, aren’t you?” Gods, he sounded raspy. He definitely needed to find a water source; what he could suck out of gathered vegetation wasn’t nearly enough.

He uncurled, brushing away the makeshift cover of foliage, and shivered in the chill morning air. He stretched, stood, and tried a few light exercises to warm up as much as to work out the soreness from his poor sleeping conditions. His injured knee seemed more cooperative today, if still a bit stiffer and weaker than the other. He relieved himself and quietly bemoaned the lack of a razor and comb. He never could grow a decent full beard, but there was time yet to remedy his grooming situation, and no around to see his scruffiness, anyway.

Thancred paused. Part of his trouble with facial hair had been the very young age he had earned his archon marks—only a half year or so older than Alphinaud and his sister were now--and the magic used to keep him looking and feeling that age had been tied to those tattoos and that time. He rubbed his neck, but the sage marks had never felt different from his unmarked skin, despite the alchemical and magical properties of the ink. Until he saw his reflection, he couldn’t be sure they were still there, or washed away like the rest. Either way, if he could no longer use magic, would the spell to slow his aging still function?

He was almost surprised that losing his magic bothered him less than the thought of losing his marks did. Magic was _helpful_ , but never his primary craft—not like Papalymo, Y’shtola, or Urianger, all experts at the weaving of spells and creating their own. Thancred had ever relied upon his own wits and practiced skills to get by, and thank the gods for that now. No, what bothered him was the thought of the Lifestream wiping away such an intrinsic piece of his identity as a Sharlayan Archon, not when he had fought so damned hard to be accepted by the scholars and earn that rank among their number.

All because Master Louisoix had believed in a scrawny dock rat that had tried to lift his purse.

“Time to put that belief to the proof once again,” Thancred told himself firmly. He stoked his little banked fire, until it burned merrily. He experimented with a few different sticks and leaves and even the loam around the tree roots, until he found a combination that would hold a flame without being consumed too quickly, and could stay on the end of a stick as a makeshift torch. It was the closest to protection he had at the moment, and if he was very lucky, might save him from having to start another fire from scratch again later.

He ensured his fire was thoroughly smothered and gave the nutkin, watching from a nearby bush, a salute. “You’ve been lovely company, but I must be off.”

After some consideration, he headed in a southerly direction, as that seemed to eventually slope downhill. He became aware of the nutkin leaping alongside in the branches, jabbering at him. Compared to a few more of its kin scuttling about, it was rather small. He guessed the curious critter to be a youngling, and wondered if it had lost its parent and so decided to latch onto the first interesting non-threat. “Maybe we’re both lost,” he muttered, watching it flit from one tree to the next.

He tried to keep his left eye closed as much as possible, as the strange aether-vision underlay was affecting his balance and depth perception more than only using his right eye did. He might have to consider investing in eye patches if this kept up.

Thancred looked for, and found, the game trails that indicated larger wildlife, such as deer and chocobos. He kept to them on his downhill push, as they would eventually lead to a water source. A handful of wild raspberries took the worst edge off his hunger and thirst as the day warmed. He could kill for some of dear Momodi’s spiced coffee, or that milk tea sweet Higiri made. One of lovely F’lhaminn’s hearty Ul’dahn breakfasts would not be remiss either.

Yesterday—no, the last day in the Rising Stones, whenever that was—he had had one of those breakfasts, and that tea, with Minfilia, and she had teased him _mercilessly_ about the multiple young women he’d found himself refereeing the day before. There had been a bit of admonishment, too, at his lack of honesty with each of them that had led to such a scene, but really how could he have guessed they would _all_ decide to track him down in Mor Dhona, let alone at the _same time_. Minfilia had shaken her head, and assured him that the Warrior of Light’s skills with people had helped see the ladies safely on their respective ways home. Always a surprise, their talented friend.

“Keep her safe for me,” he whispered now to the stalwart champion, recalling the pained look on Minfilia’s face as he had handed her the lantern, Y’shtola urging the Walkers to run as the Blades and Braves converged on them…

Thancred wiped his free hand down his face, stretched his aching knee, and pressed on.

After perhaps a bell, his persistence was rewarded as the tree line broke by a stream in a deep, rocky bed, carrying with it the fresh clean scent of mountain runoff. It was almost enough to make a grown man weep.

“Don’t rush,” he reminded himself. Thancred counted out a minute as he looked around, and even up, to make sure there were no visible dangers in the immediate vicinity. He threw a few pebbles; upstream, downstream, across the stream. When nothing happened aside from a few waterfowl making annoyed noises, he stepped out into the open.

What looked like an ancient wall cut across the waterway, a dam that barely held back the water any longer. The pond it formed was mostly placid, but the cracks and holes in the old structure created mini-waterfalls more than relief spouts, and the stream merrily wound its way between forest and plain toward another shimmering line in the distance; a lake or river this one was tributary to. Something to investigate later, perhaps.

As were those rough, muddy towers surrounded by green smoke further south across the hilly terrain, more barren past this point. The east seemed an impenetrable wall of caelumtrees and rocky hills. To the west, just over more trees and hills, were another trio of towers but those seemed almost Ishgardian in design—if not for the shapes at the top. Actual dragons, or carved structures? Hard to tell from this distance, and frankly, Thancred wasn’t all too keen on finding out.

Given the mountains past the southern towers, he was definitely on the other side of the Spine, though, and very likely in Dravania. _Wonderful_.

Thancred set his torch upright, safely away from the water, and limped to the old wall and its rivulets and falls. His feet felt torn to hell after his long walk, and the rocks were not helping. He reached out to cup water in his palm; the animals and plants nearby seemed healthy enough, and the strange towers with their colorful smoke were downstream.

“Thal’s balls!” he swore. Definitely mountain runoff; it was freezing. It was also heavenly, as he drank greedily, keeping an eye out for trouble. After a moment, he took a breath, and with a yelp briefly leapt into the water entirely, washing off the grime of the night before and the light sweat his walk had produced.

Gladly, no one was around to see the results of such a cold bath.

He scrambled back onto the bank, wringing out his hair and shaking water off his limbs. He stamped his feet and winced at how his soles protested.

The nutkin was nearby, daintily lapping water at the edge of the pond. It looked up at him and cocked its head.

“Bracing, isn’t it?” Thancred said, swinging his arms. “I could use a towel. A robe. A warm and willing lady…”

The nutkin stood straight up, nose twitching and eyes darting about before it zipped back into the brushline. Thancred grabbed the torch and followed as quickly as his protesting feet and knee allowed. He stopped behind a tree, listening.

Were those gunshots?

There was a clattering noise, a clicking-chittering, and splashing. Definitely a struggle occurring, and someone urging another on. Thancred leaned around the tree to get a look.

They were bipedal insectoids, with mandibles and stick-like legs and a hard chitin shell instead of skin. One wore green garb, and was urging its companion through the water. The second seemed almost stunned. The green-wearing fellow kept looking back towards the plains—towards the southern towers—and pushed the other onto the bank. The rush of the water and the distance made it difficult to make out the words.

Thancred followed them.

He kept in the trees, staying far enough back and downwind to avoid his torch giving him away. They were running straight through, more interested in speed and distance from whatever was pursuing them. As they crossed an old road, Thancred stuck to the trees, and looked back along the path as the green-clad one glanced behind them and squealed.

Coming up the road were more of the creatures, but differently dressed and wielding some form of firearm. The green-clad one pulled out their own firearm, and shot not at the pursuers, but into the treeline opposite Thancred’s position. They then grabbed their companion’s arm and ran.

One of the trees seemed to take exception to being shot. Some form of treant, it lumbered onto the road and roared. Birds burst from the trees in terror, and the pursuing insectoids stopped. At exactly the same time, Thancred noted.

They also turned to run at the same time, as the treant-thing saw them and stomped their way, its actual assailant and their companion now out of sight, though given their haste, it wouldn’t be difficult to track them. 

Thancred faded back into the woods, away from the road and the roaring creature, though now he was wary of the trees around him. Add it to the list of things to keep in mind. He looped up through the forest, eventually risking dashing across the road—gods, he missed his shoes—to continue following the insectoids to the other side. He tried to recall studies of beast tribes in the north, back when Sharlayan still stood in the northwest corner of the realm. He recalled there was an insectoid tribe nearby, but there wasn’t much known about them, besides what little Ishgard’s chocobo hunters deigned to share. The bugs mostly kept to their hive, by all accounts.

He came across a bear’s spoor, and after checking the tracks, skirted around the likely place the creature was resting to continue his pursuit. If the green-clad insect was running away from the hive, with another in tow, it indicated multiple hives—perhaps one friendly to men, if the Warrior of Light’s experiences were a measure.

Thancred wondered if they had a god.

The land was rockier closer to this stretch of mountains— _the_ mountain, Thancred realized, looking up to barely see the landmasses floating high overhead. He had to pick his course with care now, the stones sharper, evidence of the volcanic activity that had formed the region abundant. He took note; this was useful.

A chattering made him freeze a moment, and then he realized the young nutkin had followed along, and was scolding him for, he assumed, his complete disregard and recklessness. “My apologies,” he muttered to the rodent. He kept going; the critter could continue to follow him as it so chose.

He smelled the hive long before he saw it, hidden among trees and rocky outcroppings, to protect its denizens from wildlife, including dragons. It was small, and seemed almost rickety; certainly nothing like the soaring, solid structures to the south, though they kept similar smudge fires going, producing that nasty odor. There were quite a few insectoids scuttling around, and they all seemed rather fussed by the new arrivals, the original green-clad fellow waving their appendages as they recounted the tale, the other still stunned or confused, though others were taking care of them and bringing what scraps of food they seemed to have.

None of these insectoids moved in concert, he noted. Not the way the others had.

He also noted his rumbling belly, but upon consideration, turned back to the woods. He was still naked and weaponless, and didn’t want to throw himself utterly at the mercy of an unknown beast tribe. He needed to observe them a little longer, as well as find something to wear and defend himself with.

‘Twas a good thing he already had ideas to remedy those problems. Assuming said ideas didn’t get him killed, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My headcanons for the archon neck (or face, in some cases) tattoos being tied to the slowed aging of the main Scions: Thancred’s age is listed as 32 in the lore book, consistent with the “The Walker’s Path” short story where he tells Minfilia about being only 17 when they first met in Ul’dah during her childhood. He looks the same from those Echo flashbacks in 1.0 until the screenshots of his arrival in Dravania in 3.1. Thancred would have been really young (and not even a Sharlayan native, so likely had scholarly catch-up to do and some respect to earn) to be considered a master in his chosen field, as not every Sharlayan becomes an archon. The slowed aging seems not infallible/permanent, and/or is a relatively new magic, as mortals are still mortals and age, but I feel like it’s there to mostly help keep one active/healthy longer than they normally would be (For example, Matoya is apparently far older than even she appears and doesn’t give her age). I imagine a bit of a ceremony for earning the rank of archon, in which the tattoos are given and the aging pause done. I know others talk about the archons’ lack of aging, but I can’t find ready sources outside of comments on the lore forum about conversations with the lore team.
> 
> Which honestly, it’s all justification for only having 1 character model for 1.0 through 2.x, but still makes it fun to speculate, especially considering the Sharlayans' extensive magical knowledge.


	3. Bear Necessity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One doesn't always intend to go hunting bears. Sometimes bears just happen.  
> (Some violence, animal harm, and talk of butchering and skinning in this one, though I try not to get too detailed)

The caelumtrees on the western edge of the forest were younger than the towering woods to the east. The underbrush was not as snarled, either, as the treeline crept up on the Smoldering Wastes in an endless back and forth battle between the barren dragon lands and the thick Chocobo Forest. The bark of the younger caelumtrees could be pulled off in decent-sized strips, though it left the saplings vulnerable to vilekin, and was rough on one’s hands without the proper tools.

Thancred was not exactly a woodworker, so getting enough strips of the proper length was proving more difficult than he had anticipated. Still, only half-listening to one of Beatin’s expositions (before finding a way to excuse oneself and vanishing before the man caught a second wind) had actually come in handy.

He wished he could remember if the timbermaster had said the bark was edible or not. In Thancred’s current state, it was looking far too tempting.

He had taken it easy for the last couple of days, giving his feet time to heal and toughen up, and for his knee to realize it was not, in fact, pierced through with an arrow. He kept by the water, mostly, and spent too much time foraging for too little satisfaction. He could not fashion anything functionally wearable for long from the local plant life, and his attempts at spearfishing had been less than stellar; he was woefully out of practice, and his sight situation was still taking getting used to.

“You would think aetheric double vision would be useful,” he said to the nutkin. “But it’s really rather distracting.” The critter chittered back, snagging its own strip of bark and dashing up the trunk to a branch where it could examine and gnaw on its prize.

Thancred took the useable strips and headed north. He had found a deposit of obsidian the last time he had gone to spy on the beastmen, and it would suit his purposes for now. He grabbed broad, flat leaves as well. He wrapped a few of the strips around his feet, leaves between the bark and his skin, to protect them while he clambered about the shards of obsidian. They only needed to last him long enough to get the pieces he meant to gather.

He also carried a heavy rock—probably a piece of brick from one of the old ruins, really—and used it to work on the stones he wanted. They had to be long enough, slender, and sharp edged. They would not be perfect, or good for throwing, but they would be functional. He worked slowly, and carefully, but even so, he cracked one promising piece. Thancred swore and moved on to the next.

Good thing he had no other pressing appointments today.

Once he had a few workable blades, he wrapped bark fiber around the ‘tang’ to make something resembling a hilt. It wasn’t the prettiest work, but would do for what he needed.

He hoped.

“All right. I have weapons, of a sort. Now to find my quarry.” The nutkin squeaked at him, and he tossed it a berry he had found and saved along the way. It caught the fruit easily and stuffed it into its mouth. Thancred grinned. “Wish me luck.”

He slipped through the woods, until he found a trail left by one of the goat-like creatures he had noticed near the beastmens' colony, and began following. At this time of day, the loaghtan was likely foraging or dozing, and if he could surprise it, this would be quick and easy. Then he would have meat and leather—some to use, some to trade.

He knew now that the beastmen had a trade deal of some sort set up with hunters to the east, deeper in the forest. The insectoids were decent enough hunters themselves, and seemed to comb the ruins for items worth trading. Those who went to the forest brought back food, clothing, and even weapons and ammunition. Dealing with them—and if needs be, through them—whilst gauging the situation in the greater realm seemed like a decent start.

As he stalked his prey, Thancred tried once again to cast a small Cure spell on his sunburnt shoulders. He even spoke each line aloud, trying to pull those whorls of aether his left eye saw too well into the familiar patterns of healing.

Nothing.

He sighed, unsurprised but still disappointed. That he could even get sunburnt meant his various protections were well and truly gone. Fifteen years working mostly in Thanalan had forced him to come up with a few minor tricks (or beg them off Urianger and his stacks of obscure knowledge) alongside the standard protection from the sage marks. Now here he was in the shadow of the highest mountain in the realm, surrounded by trees tall enough to block dragon eyes, and half his skin was peeling off from too much sun and wind.

He bit his lip in frustration and kept going.

Thancred came across the loaghtan drinking from a shallow river, rushing down from the confluence just north and east, the water cutting deep into the rocky landscape. The day was, for a change, warm, and with the sun high overhead, the dragons were currently keeping to their cooler roosts, making standing in the open a little less risky than usual.

He moved slowly, keeping downwind and out of sight. If he could get it in or near the water, that would make some things easier. The loaghtan looked upstream, ears flicking. He had to move swiftly before it—

The loaghtan bolted as something large crashed through the woodline. Crouching on a rock midstream only a few fulms from where it had been, Thancred froze.

“Oh, bugger.”

He could really use some of those shinobi smoke bombs to help him disappear, as the bear lumbered into the open, saw him, and roared while it charged. Not the friendliest creatures, these Dravanian bears.

Thancred stood his ground until the beast was close. He dropped back into a crouch, dodging the incoming swipe, and then popped up inside its reach. He stabbed, one dagger for the heart, the other going in low and hoping for another vital organ, or to at least tear the bear open.

It roared in pain, flailing at him. Thancred kicked off the bear’s torso and flipped back. He hissed as claws caught and raked his thigh. He landed hard on the bank and made ready to move again. One of his blades was still in hand, but the other was lodged in the creature’s chest.

The bear made another pained noise and dropped to all fours to charge him again. It was bleeding heavily, its movement clumsy. Thancred bolted downstream, letting it chase him. His speed was his only advantage right now, and he had to wear the thing out if he was to have a chance. He saw a branch, hanging out over the ravine the river cut, and leapt for it. He caught and swung up onto the branch and looked down as the whole tree shook.

The bear had skid into the trunk, its claws scrambling against the bark to get to the man who had so injured it. Thancred held on. When it managed to get a grip on the branch, he jammed his knee down onto the top of the paw and stabbed for the bear’s face.

The thing moved at the last second, so instead of its eye his dagger went through its maw, and up into its brain that way. It slackened, and with a groaning sound, fell back, making a heavy splashing thump as it landed.

Thancred leaned on the tree and panted, watching it twitch in its death throes. Would that he could have made that far cleaner and less painful for the beast.

There was a familiar chittering, as his nutkin friend caught up and set to scolding him.

“Well, no, it didn’t go according to plan,” Thancred admitted. “But I am alive, the bear is not, and now, I shall have meat and hide.”

He considered the corpse below. It was quite a bit larger than the intended loaghtan had been. After a few moments to catch his breath and stop the nervous shaking once the adrenaline had worn off, Thancred climbed down and splashed water on his leg where he had been clawed. The cuts were not deep, luckily, and would heal quickly enough. He would just keep an eye on them, and knew of a few plants he had seen that would make a decent poultice to avoid infection. He then made his way back upstream to where he had cached the other obsidian knives and the remaining bark fibers.

He took time on the return trip to find suitable branches, or break them off the trees as needed. It took time to strip the leaves and smaller twigs away, then weave together what he had, using the bark strips, and a few vines and weeds, to tie it together. He drug it back to his kill and looked the body over. Then he picked up his knives and got to work.

He had not had to skin anything this large in a long while, though the principle was the same as when hunting smaller game. Most of the trouble was his makeshift cutlery. He didn’t worry too much about getting the entire hide off in one intact skin, but he did need large enough pieces to be workable. Moving the damned thing took more effort than he wished to expend on his current limited diet, but he pushed on and reminded himself it would be worth it as he opened up and cleaned the corpse. The river helped.

Once the pelt was more or less removed, he set to butchering as much meat as he could carry. He also took the teeth and claws, and a few bones. Thancred grimaced at how much he was going to have to leave behind, dissatisfied with the waste, but he really couldn’t carry much more, nor eat or trade it before it went rancid anyway. There were other creatures in the forest that would take care of the bounty he left them. He did try to get it out of the water, so it wouldn’t pollute the stream much more than it already had.

Night was falling by the time he began dragging his kill back to his meager little camp. The stars were bright, as was the moonlight, and with his aether vision on top of that, he was able to make decent time the rest of the way, moving almost as well as in the daytime.

He stoked the fire and set one of the nicer cuts to roast while he began to stretch the hide over the rough frames he had fashioned the day before. He worked late into the night, scraping and cleaning the skin and letting it dry.

He took a break to eat the meat once it was ready, tearing into it, finally able to sate his hunger on more than a couple tubers and handfuls of berries. “That…goes a long way,” he sighed. The nutkin had long since curled up on a branch and gone to sleep. He wanted to sleep as well, but there was still a bit to do—secure the rest of his bounty high enough where scavengers wouldn’t try to steal it, finish preparing the hides, he could perhaps leave off fashioning the bones into tools until the morrow…

Thancred yawned, then stood and stretched. Having a full belly for the first time since arriving in this wilderness was a wonderful feeling, and he had confidence now that he was not only going to survive, but find his way back to civilization, back—

Home. Where ever that was now.

“Where the Scions are,” he said roughly as he continued his work. “Where Minfilia is.”

As he had the past few days, he pushed further thoughts of his friends from his mind for now. If he was to return to them, he had to survive, and if he was to survive, he had to focus on the task at hand, and only the next immediate step.

Tomorrow, he was going to try to meet the Vath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, there are safer animals to hunt--especially with makeshift weapons when naked--so I doubt the bear was an intentional first target. There are some who grouse about Thancred's sudden tan after his wilderness adventure, despite staying so pale after years in Thanalan, but I figure he not only had his magic protections that helped slow the aging and suppressed too many changes, but also access to whatever sunscreen the alchemists could whip up. ;)
> 
> This was a difficult chapter to write, and I'm not sure I'm satisfied with it, but here we go. Next, there are bugs to meet and real gear to obtain.


	4. Colony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thancred meets the Vath

It took two days, but turning his newly-won hides into workable clothing had taken more effort than he had expected; Thancred was not much of a leatherworker. Still, he had something to cover himself now, even if it scratched and rubbed his sunburned skin.

He looked ridiculous. But he was clothed, at least, and the ridiculousness could eventually be remedied.

Of greater concern were the wounds he had taken fighting the bear; he felt feverish, and was certain there was an infection despite his precautions. The nigh-constant headache from his altered eyesight was not helping, and he wrapped a strip of bearskin around his head at an angle to try to block the aetheric view.

Thancred drug his travois, loaded with the remaining hides and meat, toward the colony, not trying to be stealthy this time. The nutkin was perched on top of the bundled items, chewing on a particularly large acorn Thancred had found and given the creature. He was expecting the first set of sentries well outside the gates of the colony, and stood still as two of the insectoid Vath stepped into view, brandishing weapons and clicking their mandibles.

“What do you want, strange fleshling?” one of them demanded.

“To trade,” Thancred answered. “I have fruit, hides, and meat.”

The beastmen seemed to perk up, and they talked between them quietly, the clicking more audible than the words. After a short debate, they turned to him again. “Follow. Come along. We will take you to the Storyteller,” the second one said, gesturing with his stick-like arm.

Thancred nodded and stepped forward. Except just then the world tilted sharply and smacked him in the face. The beastmen clicked and shouted, and he was surrounded by a few pairs of stick-like legs, then lifted, and then half-carried into the colony.

He heard the nutkin chittering somewhere behind him, and he tried to tell the Vath not to eat his little friend.

He wasn’t sure how much longer it was before he woke again; a few bells, at least. He was in a cool structure, part stone and part mud daub, and the fires in his leg and eye seemed to have been soothed for now. An elderly-looking Vath shuffled nearby, mixing up some sort of foul-smelling paste in a bowl, before dabbing it on Thancred’s leg with a woolly brush. “You are in poor health, fleshling,” the elder said, when he noticed Thancred was awake.

Thancred grunted in agreement. “I arrived in this land but recently, through magic that left me with no supplies, nor even clothes. I have done what I could, but…”

The elder shook his head, mandibles clicking. “You may stay. Remain here to heal, to eat. The hides and food you bring are enough for now. We will help you.”

“Thank you.”

The elder nodded. “Aid we are glad to give. After all, we of the Nonmind were all lost ourselves, before finding Loth ast Vath.”

“The Nonmind?”

The elder nodded. “We are the Vath—the Nonmind. We awoke, breaking away from the Onemind. We are no longer under that which controls the Gnath.” He gestured to the south, where the towers of the larger colony stood malms away.

Thancred sat up, with the elder’s help. “I see. I take it they are not as friendly toward men as you are?” He inspected the paste slathered on his leg. It smelled terrible—like most things in this village, to be honest—but it felt cool and soothing. The elder began to wrap a rough cloth around Thancred’s leg, covering the wound and medication.

“Less and less, since they called on their god. But the great hunter came and killed the god, and now the Gnath remain in their hive, avoiding men and dragons, and only harrying Vath if they find us.”

Thancred sucked in a breath. “This ‘great hunter’…can you describe them?”

“They were a fleshling, but very strong. Even dragons respect the hunter.”

“Yes, I assume so…but, shorter than me, taller? Hair color, man or woman…?”

The elder clicked in understanding, and proceeded to roughly describe someone who could only be the Warrior of Light. Thancred felt positively giddy, but suppressed the urge to fidget. “Was the hunter alone?”

“Three others; a dragon hunter clad in black armor and wielding a great lance. A dragon friend; she had long silver hair and wore blue, and went to the hive to face the god with the hunter. And an elezen youngling, white hair, also clad in blue, very nervous. Yes, very nervous.”

Curious. The dragon hunter was like to be a dragoon of Ishgard, but the woman…the only one Thancred knew who fit that description, and could possibly stand against a primal alongside the Warrior of Light without fear of tempering, was the heretic leader, Lady Iceheart.

What in the seven hells was his friend up to?

As for the youngling elezen, it had to be one of the Leveilleur twins. Thancred felt a pang as he recalled his inability to get to Alphinaud that awful night; he knew the mutinous Crystal Braves had apprehended their young commander, but he had not had the time to discover where they had taken the boy before rejoining the other Scions.

Then there had been no time at all.

“Where are they now? After the god died, where did they go?”

The elder studied him for a long moment before answering. “To the dragons. They killed the god to stop the Gnath, so the dragons would open the path up the mountain. Our scouts have sometimes seen the hunter and youngling passing through these lands with other companions since then.”

“Thank you, elder. I believe the hunter and youngling to be friends of mine, and your tale gives me hope I shall rejoin my comrades. Before I do, however, I will need real clothes; something better suited to a man of refinement such as myself. And better weapons, to go along with them.”

The elder’s mandibles clicked. “I am called the Storyteller,” he said. “For now, fleshling, you will rest. Trade can wait until tomorrow. Some will have to be traded with the hunters in Tailfeather.”

Thancred thought of protesting, but the Storyteller was firm. In any case, he could actually, truly rest within the safety of the colony, as the days of stress and hunger caught up to him.

When he woke again, it was early in the morning—he had slept through the remaining afternoon and all through the night. The nutkin was curled up on the pallet next to him, the ends of its fluffy tail drifting into his face.

“Well, at least they didn’t eat you,” he said. The Storyteller had left a cup and a pitcher nearby, and Thancred helped himself, after an experimental sniff of the contents to be sure it was nothing more than mountain spring water.

Walking was more difficult than expected. The days alone with little food or shelter really had taken a toll, on top of the injuries he had suffered along the way. The drive to survive and rejoin the Scions had kept him moving, but even that would have eventually run out and left Thancred moldering under a tree somewhere, had he not come to Loth ast Vath.

The Vath were friendly enough, and the one they called Stickpeddler was happy to go to Tailfeather to trade for what Thancred asked for. In the meanwhile, he let himself heal and regain strength, and learned what he could of his hosts and their Gnath counterparts—and their god.

Being separated from the Onemind, the Vath did not know much about the god, besides it was called Ravana, and drove the hive to war against the dragons in order to rule the land. But now that the Scions knew of the danger, they would be keeping an eye on Loth ast Gnath.

Two days later, he picked over the wares the Stickpeddler had brought back from Tailfeather, selecting a white vest with green skirting that would protect decently from the cool, wet weather of the region without weighing him down. A pair of leather gaskins and tall, dark leather boots suited him well enough, and he chose a few belts and straps made for carrying multiple throwing daggers. There were long, fingerless gloves with elbow guards, and a few bandanas. One of those went around his head to cover his left eye, granting him some relief.

There were also weapons; some brought back from Tailfeather, some, however, scavenged from the various ruins dotting the region. Thancred grabbed a selection of throwing knives, and eyed a long, slim trapper’s dagger that would make for an excellent off-hand. What really caught his attention, though, was the heavy blade the Stickpeddler proudly showed him, salvaged from a ruin and once polished, showed no signs of rust or wear. Looking at the design, Thancred was certain it was of Allagan make.

“And the fleshling will use these weapons to hunt for the colony?” The Stickpeddler asked, hesitant to give up quite so many wares.

Thancred nodded. “I must needs pay the Vath back for your hospitality, but I cannot do that without proper gear. Besides, none of your hunters want to go after meliae, though the hunters need arrows. I’ll gladly harvest melia branches for you, for your next trip to Tailfeather.” He gave a moment’s thought, scratching at the fringe of the beard growing on his jaw. “I might even go by the river and collect nanka eggs…”

“Fleshling may use the weapons, then. For the colony,” the Stickpeddler replied eagerly, handing over the blades.

Thancred grinned. “Thank you, friend. I shall be sure to pay you back soon.”

It felt good to have the weight of weapons on his hips again. Taking on the wildlife of the Wastes seemed far less daunting a prospect, and he really did want to repay the Vath for their kindness. The activity would only hone his skills, now that he could not augment his attacks with magic.

His prospects were, most assuredly, improving. Now if only he could get a message to the Scions, or find where they were now.

His eyes turned to the towers far to the south. Thancred supposed that if they were _very_ unlucky, the Scions would end up coming to _him_ after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was another hard one. Partially cuz of the Vath not really having a set speech pattern like other beast tribes--part of their bid for individuality, perhaps? And I wasn't adding in clicks. The other part may be my brain's overeagerness for the next chapter...
> 
> Also a few liberties with the Vath Beast Tribe quests, which might be more evident a bit later. While introduced in a later patch, they are set to start once a player finishes the Ravana quests, so letting some of those characters and their quests pop up.
> 
> Checked the Journal entries ("the storyteller soon confirms that the Vath have indeed had dealings with Thancred. The “fleshling clothed in skins,” as they call him, came to them from Sohm Al weak and disoriented, and was given succor in exchange for meat and hides. According to the storyteller, he stayed with them for some time") and the Encyclopaedia Eorzea to double check things about Thancred's new weapons ("Unnamed Blades" "Obtained through trade in Loth ast Vath, Thancred carries one heavy blade--most likely a salvaged artifact of ancient Allag--and a slim trappers' dagger. Despite being products of necessity rather than choice, the Archon has grown quite fond of the odd pair.")


	5. Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Traumatic memories make for rough nights.

He tried to scream, but his mouth did not obey him anymore.

A mocking laugh came from his throat, but not in his voice. His hands moved of their own accord, examining himself.

**_Yes. This will be quite useful._ **

The thought was not his own.

Trapped in his own mind, another in control of his body, Thancred kept trying to scream.

***

The invader had not destroyed him, because it needed his memories and personality.

He heard himself, as if from far away, laughing and joking with Yda while exasperating Papalymo. He teased young Alphinaud and Arenvald, pointing out any young ladies nearby, just to see the youths blush and stutter. He researched and argued with Y’shtola, and annoyed stuffy Urianger.

No one noticed it was an imposter wearing Thancred’s body.

He felt the Paragon’s talons peel through his mind, no matter how he tried to fight. It knew the truth about Yda, and filed that away as trivial, but possibly useful later. It avoided Minfilia and the Bringer of Light, claiming investigations keeping it busy—moments it meant to use to meet others of its kind, or with the Garleans and to inspect their monstrous machine.

Those times Thancred could not recall well. The Ascian did not let him see much, not because it was concerned about his learning—Thancred belonged to it now, forever—but because the Archon’s memories and personality were unnecessary in those moments. Unimportant.

Things still slipped through, but for the most part, they did not matter. Not as much as knowing it walked among his friends, and no one—not even Minfilia, with her gift and having known him for so long—realized the truth.

Gods, please, let someone hear him scream.

***

The Waking Sands was filled with screaming. Garlean gunshots were a terrible punctuation.

Thancred’s impotent rage and grief amused the Ascian, as it allowed the Archon to watch, unable to do a damned thing while they moved through the carnage like the specter of Thal.

A’aba and Aulie were still fighting, Arenvald behind them, injured and frightened. The Ascian paused, watching. Arenvald screamed as he watched the Garleans cut the miqo’te and elezen down. The soldiers then turned on the boy.

 ** _“Leave him,”_** the Paragon ordered. Its dark power flowed from Thancred’s gloved hands, and Arenvald collapsed.

Thancred could almost swear he sensed annoyance from the body thief. It didn’t _want_ to spare the youth—it _had_ to?

At least the soldiers obeyed, hesitantly, leaving the young man unconscious in a pool of blood.

Livia’s troops marched Minfilia (unhurt, thank the gods), Urianger, Papalymo, Tataru, Biggs, and Wedge to where the Ascian waited. It used its teleportation magic to whisk them elsewhere, leaving behind the shattered Waking Sands.

Thancred needed to scream.

***

Alphinaud and Cid crept past the sleeping dragon toward the derelict airship.

The Ascian’s attention was on the third figure, hate and rage bleeding through, belying its calm demeanor.

All Thancred saw was Light.

He realized too late who the lighted figure was as the Ascian woke the dragon.

The Paragon teleported away while Thancred tried, again, to scream as the dragon attacked his friend.

***

The castrum’s alarms rang, soldiers shouting as the airship lifted, carrying the escaped prisoners. van Baelsar ranted as the Eorzeans made to flee.

Gods, the man talked too much. On that point, at least, Thancred and the Ascian agreed (to its amusement and his disgust).

Cid was carrying the Scions away. They were safe. Thancred could only feel relief.

Perhaps the Paragon sensed his glee, as well as the fleeing Scions noting its presence—not just the Walkers, he was purposefully visible to them all. Thancred felt his hands move, pulling back the black hood.

No.

His hands removed the red mask.

_NO!_

Minfilia screamed Thancred’s name as the Ultima weapon fired and the ship flew away.

Thancred wished he could scream in response.

***

The devastation was awful. van Baelsar raged, but the Ascian ignored him. It was frustrated by the adventurers still standing despite Ultima’s power, the gleam of the Crystal’s protection unfading.

The frustration turned to smug satisfaction, even as the weapon failed and the Black Wolf fell. _She was weakened_.

**_“Yet know that if I should perish, so too will the mortal within whose flesh I reside.”_ **

They hesitated briefly. Thancred wanted to shout; the Ascian had to be stopped, and if it meant his sacrifice, then so be it!

The Bringer of Light was more stubborn than that.

Light tore through Thancred’s body, banishing shadows.

**_“The Light…It binds them… They are too many!”_ **

_**I am eternal!** _

The Ascian screamed, and Thancred fell.

***

**_“I am become you…”_ **

**_“…And we are become one.”_ **

The Warrior of Light shone like a beacon against the horror the Ascians spawned.

A blaze of Light. Incomprehension. _Disbelief_. Pain. _Rage_.

**_WE ARE ETERNAL...!_ **

More Light. Incomprehension. Disbelief. Pain. Rage. Power that made his left eye throb, as the Primal’s blade swung—

***

Thancred woke screaming.

The nutkin squealed and dashed away. Thancred was shaking, covered in sweat, tears streaming down his cheeks as he…laughed?

It was a strange, hysterical sort of laughter. The kind that came with sudden, unexpected relief after horrible stress.

He felt lighter, somehow.

There was a clicking on the other side of the cloth covering the door to his small room. “Fleshling? Is something wrong?”

“I-“ He cleared his throat and tried again. “I’m fine, thank you. Just…bad dreams, is all. Pray, forgive my interruption.”

The Vath clicked and went on her way.

Thancred reached for the water pitcher kept by his pallet. He still felt oddly giddy, an entirely new sensation after the usual vivid nightmares of his time in the Ascian’s thrall.

He had not thought of Lahabrea in some time—tried rather hard not to, as a matter of fact, and certainly not without a bottle or three at hand. Papalymo and F’lhaminn had both discreetly commented on his drinking, in those moons after Operation Archon. He had obfuscated them easily enough. Y’shtola was harder to fool, but she had let it rest when he had lost his temper and snapped at her. He suspected now that she and Minfilia were of a mind and had been watching him, waiting for the right moment to intervene.

Fate had conspired against them all.

The dreams had, mostly, been familiar, pulled from the vault of his memories, oft times sharper than when he had lived through those moments. The last scene, though—it was fading from his mind like candle smoke in the wind, and he could not recall it properly, nor why it seemed so important…

A soft, furry shape forced itself under his palm, and he heard a concerned squeak. When he looked down, surprised, the nutkin looked back up at him with its large, dark eyes.

“I’m fine,” Thancred said hoarsely, petting the little creature. “Thank you for asking.”

The nutkin curled upon his chest as Thancred lay back down, absently stroking its soft fur. He had barely retired for the evening before the nightmares had assaulted him, and he feared he might not go back to sleep as easily again.

But as the stars glittered brighter through his window than he could recall them shining in a long time, Thancred drifted off to sleep again to the buzzing lull of the Vath colony and the quiet, chirring snores of the fuzzy companion on his chest.

He did not dream of Ascians again that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of my disappointments with the story is how little follow-up Thancred's ARR plotline received; a few mentions here and there, but much is inference and assumption, with fanfic filling in the gaps. Here's my take on it, as well as speculation that maybe, since Thancred is a rare (only?) living host that was freed from Ascian possession, there might still be a tentative, unknown connection.
> 
> There might be some classic Harlan Ellison influence going on here too. I probably read that story before I was ready for it as a kid.


	6. Unavoidable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can only avoid thinking of some things--and some people--for so long.

_1…2…3…4…Now!_

Thancred ran, adjusting his balance to let his momentum carry him up a steep hillside and vaulting off the far edge, rolling as he struck the ground and coming back up on his feet to dash to an old wall. He leapt and scrambled up the side, finding hand and footholds where he could, but mostly using his speed to defy gravity and parkour his way to the top. Then it became a balancing act as he moved along the narrow, crumbled wall toward the remains of a tower it used to connect with.

He had not trained this hard in years; he always did enough to handle the rigors of his various duties, but that had been more about maintaining his high level of fitness. This was as if he were preparing for his Archon exams again, only without the benefits of minor magicks to supplement or enhance his physical skills.

Nor did he have access to Cures, he reminded himself again as he nearly slipped off the thirty fulm high wall. He could not be as reckless as he perhaps had been before.

He crouched at what used to be a corner, eyeing the crumbling staircase of the old tower. There might have been a door here, once, but now it was a yawning entrance leading up to a split-open roof. He wondered if he could get up there.

“Is it really necessary?” He heard Papalymo’s voice ask, in the man’s ever-exasperated tone.

Papalymo was not here, Thancred told himself. He pushed aside any feeling on that as he crouched and then leapt for the stairs.

He made it, but he had not accounted for the slick moss covering the stonework he tried to grab, nor how the foothold he had found crumbled under his sudden weight.

There was a landing just below, and he managed to twist in time to hit it hard, but without breaking anything. The bruises were going to be spectacular later. He rolled onto his back and just lay there for a long moment, trying to get his breath back.

“I told you so,” came the lalafell’s voice again.

“Oh, shut up,” Thancred gasped. He sat up with a groan, stretching and rolling his limbs, checking to see if anything was broken or if he was bleeding from anywhere.

“Maybe you ought to take a break, you’ve been at this for hours,” he could swear he heard Yda say.

“Probably right,” he muttered as he stood, wincing. The sun was a quite a distance from where it had been when he started today's activities. Still, there was another reason—besides his acrobatic training—that he had wanted to get to the top of the tower.

“You never did know when to quit,” F’lhaminn’s laugh echoed in his ears as he began to climb the broken tower, more carefully this time.

He grumbled as he pulled himself up to where he could actually walk upon the stairs, watching and listening for signs of the old stone giving way.

Another voice tried to intrude, but he pushed her away before letting her speak, the image of annoyed tail and ear flicks briefly crossing his vision before he found other things to focus on.

The distant towers of Loth ast Gnath were not as obscured by green silver dew smoke as they ought to be. The noxious mixture kept dragons—and most other creatures with working noses—away from the colonies. Thancred’s pack was full of the weed to take back to the Vath.

What reason would the Onemind have for letting the smoke thin out?

“If thou wouldst ever pay attention, the answer may come more readily,” he could just hear Urianger’s dry tones.

“I pay plenty of attention. Just to things you deem to be unimportant,” Thancred murmured as he sat on the broken tower and watched.

He waited, motionless, for three quarters of a bell, and considered seeing how much longer he could manage to keep in one position when he caught sight of a young drake flying toward the Whilom River. Moving would definitely be a terrible idea now, and so Thancred watched the young dragon, admiring the graceful motion as it dove toward the water to snatch a nanka.

He was far enough away that he could barely hear the gunshots, but he saw the drake jerk, drop its prey, and heard its roar of pain, reverberating in his mind and bones. He heard an answering roar in the distance. In short order he saw a larger dragon racing toward the river and the floundering youngling. It was the white lady, as he referred to her; she seemed to be an elder, or at least in charge of the three ancient towers and the brood that lived there.

Her breath blasted the opposite river bank as she flew close. Two wyverns followed, helping the injured drake while she stood guard. Thancred’s eye followed her gaze, at the tiny, scurrying Gnath heading back to their colony.

His gaze lifted higher, beyond the hills to the towers. He took a steadying breath and pulled aside his bandana, blinking his left eye until it focused.

There was a definite shift in the aether, compared to the last time he had checked, a mere handful of days ago.

Thancred closed that eye and pulled the bandana back into place, letting his normal eyesight readjust. He could not record readings with his eye the way he could with his old Sharlayan goggles, but observation was enough in this case. The rumors of the Gnath gathering crystals seemed to be all too likely, if they were inviting conflict with the Dravanians.

To be certain, however, Thancred was going to have to get closer to the hive. A lot closer.

“Mayhap we shall be coming to you yet,” he heard in Alphinaud’s more imperious tones.

“Mayhap,” Thancred agreed, one part of him dreading the idea of a loosed primal.

The other part of him, however, was getting dangerously giddy at the idea that the Warrior of Light would learn about the Onemind’s summoning, bringing the Scions near.

Gods, he missed them. Even if he heard his own self-loathing in their voices.

“’Twas ever your nature,” Y’shtola’s voice said. “Though I wish it were not the case.”

He pushed the memory of her away again. She always came with the sensation of rushing winds and of being caught helpless in a rapid river, and they weren’t so much clinging to one another as they _were_ one another, until she suddenly threw him onto the bank while she continued on, and he felt his loneliness even more keenly.

Once the dragons headed back to their towers, Thancred chanced moving, climbing down through the tower and out across the hills, the sun low in the western sky. He took a roundabout way to Loth ast Vath, but the meliae were not prowling the roadsides. Too bad; there was a commission for arrows from Tailfeather, and Thancred could usually collect more melia branches than the Vath hunters. Perhaps in the morning, before he left.

“You’re leaving?” The Storyteller asked, surprised, as he accepted the bag of silver dew.

Thancred nodded. “I think the Gnath are not just planning to summon their god; I believe they have, but I need to be certain. If that is the case, we may have to get word to the one who hunts such false gods.”

The Storyteller considered this, and nodded, mandibles clicking. The sound seemed normal rather than unnerving now. “Yes, if the god is returned, the hunter must be called. Conflict between the Gnath and the dragons will hurt Loth ast Vath, possibly Tailfeather.” The old bug looked up at Thancred. “I will not stop you, if you feel this is what you must do for yourself.”

Ah, the Vath concerns about individuality and choice. Bless them.

Thancred nodded. “I do. If all goes well, and I am wrong, then I shall likely return—before making my way to Tailfeather. I am well enough now, I think, to return to my people.” Where ever they are.

The Storyteller nodded. “You have grown stronger this past moon. We shall miss your skills as a hunter, but you must do what you must. It is late now, though, so I do suggest you rest before taking your leave.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Thancred replied. He bowed to the Storyteller, and headed for the little room they had given him. He had enough supplies, at least for a short trip, and after weeks in this land, he had a much better idea of how to survive in it—particularly now that he was not naked or weaponless.

The nutkin squeaked and ran around excitedly, sensing the change in Thancred’s mood and seeing him make everything ready for the morrow. He finally caught the critter and wrestled it into cuddly submission, until it was content to wrap itself around his shoulders and let him work.

“I shall have to convince you to stay somewhere safe while I skulk about the hive,” he mused. “I am fairly certain the Gnath will, in fact, eat you.”

“You always put others before yourself,” the most familiar, gentle voice said.

He paused and closed his eyes. The world felt lighter and warmer, and he could swear he felt her hand on his arm. “I wish you would remember to take care of yourself, sometimes,” she continued.

“I’m fine,” he whispered hoarsely. “I have done nothing _but_ take care of myself, these last…however long it’s been. I would much rather be back to taking care of you. And the others.”

She laughed, softly. “It would be nice, for things to go back to how they were before.” She sounded wistful. This was _his_ overactive imagination, dammit, why make her sad?

Was that her head resting against his shoulder, or the weight of the nutkin? “Change happens, even when we’re looking,” she said, sounding distant despite the warmth he felt. “The others need you, more than I. I shan’t be far.” He felt a hand press to his heart. He opened his eyes.

“Minfilia—“

He was alone. There was only the nutkin, chirring softly as it slept in his collar. It woke when he started to shake from repressing his sobs, chirping with concern as tears slid down his cheeks.

He had tried not to think of them on purpose, for this exact reason, but the thought of the primal and the habits it had pulled up brought them to mind as well. His colleagues. His friends. His family.

Did they even know he was alive? Were they even looking for him?

He wanted to believe “yes.” The nasty little voice in his mind—the one that sounded like a bizarre cross between Lahabrea and his old rogue master in Limsa—said “no.”

Even with the nutkin’s concerned care, it took far too long for Thancred to compose himself again. He splashed water on his face and took several calming breaths. “Tomorrow, we check Loth ast Gnath,” he said. The nutkin cocked its head at him and chirruped questioningly. “If the primal is there, the Scions cannot be far behind—and if it is _not_ there, we prevent the Onemind from summoning it. Somehow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thancred and Minfilia's relationship is always going to be family to me; the little sister he adopted because he felt responsible, but came to adore because of who she is (and not just what she and her gift represent). I meant to add more actual memories or thoughts about the Scions, but this was getting long-ish and worked out this way, and well, if Thancred's known for anything, it's self-doubt under his suave, snarky demeanor...
> 
> So now it's a bridge chapter as we come close to what I *think* might be the end of this particular story.


	7. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thancred skulks into Loth ast Gnath to see if Ravana has been summoned.

Getting into Loth ast Gnath was far easier than it should have been.

Thancred bit back the uneasy feeling crawling up his spine as he pulled himself along one of the ropes stretched between the combs of hives, apparently for both travel and decoration. He wanted to be higher, because not only was it easier for him to get a good view, but also rarely did anyone else look up, making it simpler to get around. Being seen by one of the Gnath, connected as they were to the Onemind, could be…unfortunate.

The colony spiraled up from the outside, and then back down into a protected interior, with a few offshoot caverns here and there. Plenty of Gnath drones went about their daily business on the outer spiral and down into the caverns. Thancred reached one of the towers rising from the central section. After a moment’s observation, he dropped onto the wooden dock jutting from its side. He followed it around the curve of the tower to get a better view of the interior.

Gnath bodies littered the path leading to the rear center of the hive. Other Gnath that should have been working nearby were mostly missing, a few stragglers still skittering for cover. Thancred frowned. It could not be dragons; they were far too noticeable in the air. Heretics, perhaps?

He tightrope-walked to the next tower, then swung down to another balcony. All of the windows and entryways were closed, and quite probably barred. From this tower, he began to pick up the sounds of combat.

His heart pounding, Thancred moved along the dock to try to get a suitable vantage point. He rounded the curve, hoping to see a familiar face.

Thancred blinked in surprise. He might have even gawped, though he would not admit to such later.

The Gnath priests were in a tight clump, obviously performing a ritual and clicking furiously in desperation. The drones guarding them were falling to the group of adventurers—who were not cutting the insectoids down nearly as quickly as they could have. The beastmen should have been easily overwhelmed, the summoning could still be avoided.

Thancred knew skilled combatants. These people were not only good enough to make it this far, they were good enough—and coordinated enough—to hold back on purpose, without letting the priests realize they were being allowed to summon their god.

Why in the all of the seven bloody hells would they want to delay and let loose a primal?

Thancred studied the adventurers. They were all dressed in rather fancy adventuring gear, all dyed black, though he saw no marks denoting a Grand Company, nor even a Free Company.

Holding the line against the Gnath’s meager reinforcements was a large roegadyn, approaching his middle years, wearing heavy armor and using his shield to cause as much damage as his sword.

The magus’ clothes and hat were all covering, but his tall, narrow build suggested an elezen. His magicks were, just from Thancred’s experienced observation, more varied and slightly different from the average thaumaturge’s arsenal, bringing to mind whispered rumors of ancient cities and lost arts.

The same could be said of the pretty lalafell woman, casting elemental and light spells Thancred expected to see from the padjali white mages, not common conjurers.

A sudden chord of music caught his attention. He knew a true bard when he saw one; while Thancred claimed the title as a cover, he was a typical poet, really. He was a mere minstrel and lover of the arts, and though well-written words had the power to stir hearts and change minds, the miqo’te girl below had _power_ in her songs, plucking the strings of her bow-harp.

It was the axe-wielding hyur, cleaving through foes, that was perhaps the most concerning. While he certainly had all the rage of a warrior, his movements and obvious skill showed far more than marauder training. After a few minutes, Thancred was certain the young man practiced multiple martial, and probably magical, disciplines.

He reminded Thancred very much of a certain, blessed friend.

The priests completed their pleading chant. A piece of the sky just above the hive broke.

Thancred was oddly annoyed he could no longer sense the aetheric shift. Still, he was a scholar of Sharlayan, and this was an opportunity for study. He pulled his bandana aside to see just what, exactly, the summoning looked like to his altered vision.

He decided quickly he might regret such curiosity later, but for now, observation was necessary, though he longed for his goggles to record the view; his colleagues would delight in such data.

It was like a tear in reality, aether bleeding into the form of a large insectoid creature, a sword for each of its four arms. Ropes of aether coiled up from the many crystals stored in the colony, solidifying its form from ghostly figment of Gnath imagination into a physical being. The ambient aether in the area immediately drew into the hungry primal, like liquid to a drain, as it greedily swallowed any free energy.

Thancred could not understand Ravana’s furious clicking language, but the hyur below let out a short, bitter laugh in response. Thancred frowned, and really looked at the adventurers.

They _glowed_.

He recalled his view of the Warrior of Light while under the Ascian’s control, how he saw his friend in those nightmares, gleaming with the Crystal’s blessing. These adventurers reminded him very much of other Echo bearers he knew, how Minfilia and Arenvald had appeared to Lahabrea’s senses, mingled as they had been with Thancred’s own. The axe-wielding man, especially, seemed empowered by the Blessing of Light. Except…

There was something _not right_ about them. The aether swirled around them as if it did not quite know where or how they fit. The spark of light was…the best way Thancred could think to describe it was “covered.” As if they tried to hide or suppress or push away their blessings, an impossible—he thought—task.

He watched them engage the primal with practiced certainty, the tempering wave shrugged aside by the entire party.

One, Thancred was very glad he was high above and unseen, else Ravana might have tried to catch him as well. Just seeing it made his eye throb and his hair stand on end.

Two, he had no idea who these people were, but they obviously had experience with facing primals, and were Chosen of Hydaelyn. How could the Scions have missed them? Where had they come from?

This made no sense.

What _did_ make sudden, wonderful sense was the motion at the front of the hive, a sudden ping on his senses. The familiar sensation of rushing wind and a rapid river. A blazing Light, embraced and unhidden. He looked away from the battle, heart in his throat.

A shock of platinum hair and a blue and white outfit that looked far more practical than the old get-up lead the charge down the hill. He had to peer a moment and wait for the youth to get a bit closer—yes, that was Alphinaud! Relief flooded through Thancred; the boy had escaped Ul’dah after all. And was now flinging himself headfirst into a Gnath colony where a primal was active. Gods swivving _bless_.

There was a lalafell in yellow, but it was not Papalymo—it was a woman, and she glowed with the Echo’s Blessing, calmer and more soothing than the blazing Warrior alongside her. They would be safe from Ravana, relatively. At least the Warrior of Light had dealt with the god before.

And there was Y’shtola. He would recognize her anywhere, after their teleport. He wondered how terribly she would kill him when he told her how lovely she looked in her new robes; it would be worth it. She could be wearing an Imperial uniform and he would think seeing her again, alive and well after the tunnel and what came after, the most beautiful sight in the world.

Ravana screamed in rage—and vanished in an impressive burst of energy, the tear in reality closing, the aether scattering back into the land.

Thancred watched the Scions draw up short, confused and cautious, as the black-clad adventurers turned toward them.

He replaced his bandana and frowned. The unknown adventurers were not surprised, nor were they standing down, remaining battle-ready. Thancred began to move to another, closer vantage point. He wanted to be able to get a drop on them, if needed.

As the Scions came into proximity, the seven Echo-bearers on the field paused and clutched their heads, a familiar sign of their power manifesting in a sudden rush of memories. Thancred slid onto one of the thick, taut ropes stretched across the hive, found his balance, and drew a few throwing knives.

He did not like this.

His instincts proved correct, as the Scions found themselves attacked by the adventurers. His friend was still recovering from walking in their memories, and the hyur bore down with that big axe…

Thancred threw his knives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's at least an epilogue to this coming.


	8. Catch Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A moment of optimism, as a lost soul finds his way home.

“You must needs get your _what_ now?” Y’shtola was entirely too amused. Obviously, the Lifestream had left her addled.

“My nutkin,” Thancred replied blithely. “The little critter relies upon me, and I would feel terrible leaving him behind.”

“I see. Very well, lead the way.” She was humoring him.

“Keep telling me about what all I have missed,” he said. “Oh, and what is the date, anyway? The Vath don’t exactly keep calendars.”

She told him, and he winced. Gods, he had been out here for moons. Not to mention how long he estimated he might have drifted…

That made him wonder. “Y’shtola, when did you emerge from the Lifestream?”

She gave him the date for that, as well, and he felt that their return to solidity had been at roughly the same time. “’Twas once they had tracked the _Soleil_ to Azys Lla and found the way barred by an Allagan barrier,” she said. He nodded; Alphinaud had been thoroughly detailed in his telling, up through the attempt to follow the Archbishop into the Sea of Clouds, running into the bloody Emperor of bloody Garlemald, and including a skyfishing fight against a primal in the shape of a giant, feathered, flying whale.

Thancred still wasn’t sure he believed that last part.

“What was it like?” He asked. “Coming back from…that.”

She was quiet a long moment, and he feared he had overstepped. “I tried to use my sister as my beacon,” she finally said. “But I was unable to escape the current. I heard the Seedseers, cutting through the din. Then I awoke in the Roost in Gridania, Mhitra at my bedside. The others were waiting without. Tataru made this new outfit, and gifted me the staff as well. She was apparently quite industrious while in Ishgard.”

He turned to look Y’shtola over, exaggerating the rake of his gaze only a little. “She did an excellent job. It fits you _very_ well.” He gave her his cheekiest grin.

Y’shtola laughed, shaking her head. “And here I thought I had missed your childish antics and lascivious behavior.”

“Not half as much as I missed your acerbic wit and disdainful lecturing,” he countered fondly. “Also, I am going to have to revise my poems about you.”

“Oh?”

“Your eyes,” he said, trying to keep his tone casual. “They’ve changed.”

She was quiet again, and he was sure this time he _had_ overstepped. He wondered how much she would admit to. Probably as little as he had, honestly.

“The Lifestream leaves its mark,” she finally answered. “You are also changed by the experience.” She stopped, forcing him to as well and look back at her. Her face was cast down, her tail hanging low and stiff, ears flattened on top of her head. “…I am sorry, Thancred.”

“For what? Saving my life? Your own?” He reached over and gripped her shoulder. “You have nothing to apologize for, Shtola. I meant it, when I said I would have thanked you then.” He smiled as she looked up. “And now…Thank you. While I was glad to sacrifice for our friends, I am _very_ happy to be alive. I am even happier to have you still standing here with me.”

She smiled back, ears lifting, tail swaying normally again. “Thancred, I…You are welcome.” She cleared her throat and smoothly shrugged his hand off her shoulder as she gestured beyond him. “Are we almost there? The others are waiting.”

“Just about. Keep talking; I’ve only had rodents and Vath to speak to for too long, and this is a grand tale.”

“Hmph. You are critiquing my storytelling skills and I know it.” She sighed. “I wish this story had a happy ending; it might make my amateur efforts more palatable.”

She told him of the trip to Sharlayan, and the state of their former home and its new residents. Of the reunion with Master Matoya, and the aetheric ram they had built with the old woman’s research (“She terrified me when we were young, you know. Probably still.” “So you _do_ have a modicum of common sense; I am simply used to her.”). He heard of Iceheart’s—Ysayle’s--sacrifice, the Imperials’ search, the horrors of Azys Lla, the Archbishop’s mad plan. Then he heard Y’shtola hesitate.

“What is it?”

“Ascians were there,” she finally said, reluctantly. “Overlords. A woman, and…Lahabrea.”

Thancred took a breath. “Figures he would be involved in this mess.”

“He is dead, Thancred.”

The world paused. “What?” Was that his voice? It sounded echoing and far away.

“The Eye of Nidhogg powered a blade of light to destroy the woman, but ‘twas the primal King Thordan who destroyed and consumed Lahabrea—in a manner akin to Leviathan and the sahagin elder, if I understand correctly.” She looked up at him, with her strange new silver eyes. “He is dead, Thancred,” she repeated.

He closed his eye and took a deep breath, then let it out again slowly. He tried to recall the faded dreams, the night they had been at their worst. It had seemed so important...

“Thancred?”

He opened his eye and smiled. “That is one nightmare put to rest, then. I guess from there King Thordan and his Knights Twelve met the same fate as the other primals our dear friend has faced?”

She frowned only a little at his skimming over the topic, and then continued to tell him of the fate of the Azure Dragoon. How wretchedly unfair and awful for the man; Thancred could relate and sympathize only too well. However, if he could be saved, perhaps there was hope for Ser Estinien. He would not bring it up; Alphinaud was already too idealistic. Speaking of…

“Alphinaud is not the boy I recall,” he said as they came up to his camp. He whistled, and collected the few supplies he had brought.

“No, he is not,” she agreed. She watched as the nutkin came scurrying out of the underbrush and climbed Thancred’s leg. “That night in Ul’dah nearly broke him, according to Tataru; he felt to blame, for the Crystal Braves and falling for the Syndicate’s manipulations. But he learned much on his journey through these lands. ‘Tis a good change.”

Thancred nodded, petting the nutkin as it perched on his shoulder and studied Y’shtola. “He did not give up on us, nor will he give up on the others,” Thancred said. “All while managing to reunite Ishgard with the rest of the Alliance. Louisoix would be proud.”

“Perhaps you should mention that to him, when there is a moment. If there is nothing else, he went ahead to Tailfeather to let Marcechamp know Ravana’s danger is put aside for now. We must catch up so we can all teleport to Ishgard and inform Ser Aymeric of Vidofnir’s decision.”

The opportunity was there, and he felt she had opened the door on purpose. Still, he said casually, “I am not attuned to that city; you shall have to side-along ‘port me, or we take the long way across Coerthas.”

She nodded and did not press. Good. She was not the only one who could keep secrets about how the Lifestream had altered them, and she already felt guilty enough about his plight. He could survive. He _had_ survived.

And now he was back with them. They had an idea where F’lhaminn, Hoary, and Coultenet had hidden. Revenant’s Toll was theirs again and filled with those former Braves who had been true, and a few new recruits besides. The Waking Sands had been spared, Urianger and his few helpers safe. They had allies in Ishgard and across the realm. The mess in Ul’dah was cleaned up, with Her Impetuousness still alive and back on her throne, thank Nald’Thal.

Krile had helped the Scions find him, and she would help them find Minfilia. Yda and Papalymo would turn up eventually; together those two were nigh unstoppable.

They made their way to Tailfeather, Y’shtola laughing at the nutkin’s antics. Alphinaud waited by the aetheryte, and for a moment, before he turned to them, the way he stood reminded Thancred of Louisoix—and it did not hurt to think that, as it might have before, when he thought the boy more of a brat. The smile the young man gave them, however, was all Alphinaud, genuine relief and happiness lighting up his face.

Thancred smiled back, allowing himself this moment of optimism. Yes, there were still plenty of challenges ahead, friends to rescue or find, and darkness to fight. But that was ever the task of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn.

His colleagues. His friends. His family.

Gods, it felt good to be home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We do see NPCs occasionally leading a group teleport--Alisaie 'porting herself and Ga Bu, or Lamimi leading the teleport to get the Warriors of Darkness away after that first meeting. Probably takes a LOT of anima to transport someone along with yourself, so aren't too common, but possible in some situations.
> 
> I am super fond of Thancred's personal nickname for Nanamo, especially when she's in her disguise.
> 
> Y'shtola's energy signature leading to the Shroud and the "coincidence" of Y'mhitra's presence struck me as design, since Y'shtola's last words in the tunnel were for her sister, and in the absence of an aetheryte to control her teleport, she would try to focus on something/one to guide her through the Lifestream, she just couldn't escape on her own.
> 
> I feel like Thancred would have an idea of Y'shtola's eye situation, given both their combined trip, as well as simply knowing her so long, and just not say anything. Also, since there's no timing on how long he was in the wilderness, in my headcanon he was thrown out of the Lifestream when the Seedseers pulled Y'shtola out. Otherwise, the WoL could have run into him around the Vath at some point, and/or he could have sought everyone out much sooner, even without magic; he's a resourceful guy.
> 
> But! That's it for this particular tale. Thank you so much for reading, and for the comments and encouragement. You guys are the best!


End file.
